


The Dove

by cincoflex



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgardian Liquor, M/M, Post-Avengers Asgard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the course of his duties, Heimdall discovers a mystery with wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heimdall. needs. love. That's pretty much the driving force behind this.

The Dove

She was a little thing. He first noticed her when she staggered along perilously close to the edge of the bifrost, her bedraggled wings fluttering to keep her upright against the gusts of wind blowing across the water. Heimdall shifted between his Gaze and his gaze, curious about why a Valkyrie would walk to his post; indeed, why a Valkyrie would come to see him at all.

As she drew closer, Heimdall noted that her tunic had seen better days, and that her wings—a soft shade of pearly grey-- were ruffled and poorly groomed, with bent and missing feathers. Part of it was the wind, but the rest of it came from neglect, and his brows drew together. With care he set his sword to lock the gate, and stepped down, moving smoothly to better look at his little visitor.

“Hail, daughter of victory,” he rumbled to her.

She stopped several yards away from him, still swaying, and even from where he stood Heimdall could smell the mead on her. He hid his smile, but as his gaze took in her face, he stiffened.

Misery gleamed, tear-bright in those mossy green eyes. She drew a hand across them and tried to lift her chin, freckled cheeks wet with more than the spray of the grey seas below them.

“Hail, guardian of Asgard. I ask a boon of thee who sees all in the Nine Realms,” She squeaked at him, her voice high and gentle.

A prickle of concern rose in him, and Heimdall moved closer, noting how the gusting wind caught on her wings. “How may I be of service to you, little one?”

“I beg you to look away from me. Close your eyes,” she called out. “What you do not see will not trouble you, or anyone else.”  
This was definitely alarming, and Heimdall took several steps closer to her, all too aware now of where the conversation was going. He braced himself. “That I cannot do, little one. My duty is to Odin and Asgard. ALL of Asgard, which means you as well.”

She uttered a rude oath, and at any other time he might have laughed, but coming from one so woebegone and desperate it only confirmed his suspicions. Spinning away from him, the small Valkyrie tried to leap but Heimdall snagged her easily, and the sudden surprise of slamming into his huge arm blocking her way was enough to bring up all the mead she’d downed. 

It arced out of her in a messy spray over the side of the bifrost, carried away by the gusts of wind luckily enough, and Heimdall waited for her retching to stop, feeling less revolted than sorry for her. When she was done, she sagged against him, clearly cried out and done with everything for the moment.

He picked her up and carried her back to the gate, fetching water and a cloth from his effects and mopped her face, urging her to rinse out her mouth. She did, reluctantly, and curled up into a little ball of feathers and tunic, her face to the curved inner wall of the gate.

Heimdall tucked his cloak around her and returned to his duty. After an hour, he realized she was asleep, and he relaxed, wondering what could have happened to bring her to this.  
Three hours later, when the time came for the gate to be locked for the night, Heimdall went through his duties and then scooped up the little Valkyrie. She struggled sleepily, but he hushed her and strode the length of the bifrost with her in his arms, letting her settle back into slumber against his chest while he considered what to do.

The Valkyries had their own hall high to the north of Asgard, and it would be wisest to bring her back there, where she belonged. Yet once he reached the end of the bifrost, Heimdall continued on the road that led to his home, Himingbjorg, his steps slow and deliberate. The gates opened at his approach and he made his way inside with his armful.

It would be better to let her sleep, he decided. In the morning she could go about her business with no one the wiser to what had transpired on the bifrost. In the meantime she could rest, undisturbed.

That decided, Heimdall carried her to a guest room and set her on the bed there. She seemed reluctant to part from him, but once he’d pulled the throw over her she settled in again so he left her there and went to his own bed across the hall, oddly pleased to have helped, in some small way. He realized only as he was falling asleep himself that he did not even know her name.

*** *** *** 

The day dawned bright, and when Heimdall awoke he took a minute to cast his Gaze upward, scanning beyond the ceiling to the distant stars, assuring himself that no threat loomed, no danger to Asgard was forthcoming. Satisfied, he moved to rise only to find his progress blocked by a face full of feathers brushing his bearded chin. Startled, he realized that he had company; the little Valkyrie had insinuated herself into his bed at some point in the night. 

He arched an eyebrow. Awkward enough that she had done it at all, even though Heimdall knew nothing carnal had occurred, but worse still that she had done so without him even realizing it had him troubled. His Gaze was all-seeing; to be set upon, even by so small and vulnerable a creature was . . . unseemly. He cleared his throat.

A pitiful little groan rose up from the figure curled around his arm, and the folded wings quivered ever so slightly. Heimdall tried to pull free, gently, but she clung, face pressed to his muscles there, and he hesitated. Clearly not all of the mead had left her system and she was paying terrible price for it this morning. He tried not to grin, well-aware of how much her head was probably throbbing.

“I have need of my arm, little one,” he whispered in a lion’s rumble.

“Me too,” she whimpered, adding, “My eyes are roasting.”

“The mead,” Heimdall told her. “Even the finest will bite back.”

He shifted, trying to work himself free, and sensed it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. With care, Heimdall rolled, taking her over the top of his hip in a flutter of feathers and croaky gasps. She straddled his hip, finally raising her face to glare at him.

“Have you no mercy?”

“Mercy, yes. Pity, no,” he told her, and shifted his little guest until she was sitting on the edge of the bed next to him. Heimdall checked her bloodshot eyes carefully and in doing so studied the rest of her as well.

Rounded and curvy, she had a woman’s body in a small package, with hair the shade of autumn leaves and freckles to match. They dappled her skin from forehead to the sweet curve of her cleavage, and Heimdall briefly wondered how much lower they went.

Chiding himself for the thought he raised his gaze. “What are you called, daughter of victory?”

“I don’t want to tell you,” she rasped, trying to brush her long curls back. “I’m sorry--I will not trouble you anymore.”

He caught her chin and lifted it, letting his Gaze see her shame and deeper within, her desperate unhappiness.

“You are no trouble to me and I wish to help.”

Heimdall found it was true, despite what she might believe, and kept perfectly still, willing to wait her out. He was very good at staying still, and the centuries of practice won when she began to squirm under his gold-eyed stare.

“You cannot help,” she finally told him, blinking rapidly. “I am disgraced and banished from the hall of my . . . sisters."

Her hesitation over that last word told Heimdall much, and he waited a moment before speaking again, his tone quiet. “Banished for how long?”

“Until I prove myself worthy of my wings,” she murmured. “Guardian, I can offer you nothing in return for your kindness except service. Allow me the dignity of repaying your hospitality with whatever chore you wish. Nobody will ever say I do not honor my obligations.” 

Heimdall considered her words, admiring the pluck of her spirit. He gave a slow nod. “Very well. Report to my steward, Hijor and he will find work for you. But,” he added, “I must call you something, and if you will not give me your name, you may not like my other choices.”

Her face tipped up, her gaze so bleak that he immediately regretted his words.

“Guardian, I have already been called more names than anyone else in Asgard; another will not matter.”

“Forgive my poor jest,” Heimdall told her quietly. “I meant no further hurt to you.”

She ducked her face away shyly, and replied, “You are kind.” 

Quietly she shifted to stand, wobbling a little. He reached out a hand to her arm to brace her as he stood himself.

“Steady little Cygnet.”

That earned him a chuckle, and she almost smiled.

Almost.

 

A few words to Hijor settled the matter. The elderly steward eyed their little guest for a moment then nodded. “Yes, I can find something for her to do, most assuredly, Guardian.”

“Treat her head as well,” Heimdall told him. “I leave her in your excellent care, Hijor.”

“My lord,” the steward bowed at the compliment.

Heimdall left her there and headed up to the high city, mulling over what he knew of the Valkyries and what he needed to find out. On the way he cast his Gaze northward, looking to the hall there.

It was peaceful. A few Valkyries were in the garden, and others toiled in the library or the armory. No-one seemed perturbed or upset or even searching the grounds and Heimdall scowled at this. He continued his way up through the city, passing through the crowds and up into the court of Odin to make his report, his steps slowing.

The report was short and without incident; Odin accepted it and dismissed him with thanks, turning to more important matters. Heimdall bowed, his duty done for the week. Instead of heading back to his home, however, he found himself heading for Frigga’s solar, asking the guards there for an audience, which was granted.

When he was admitted, she rose to meet him, leaving her books and herbs at the table. “Heimdall, you seek me?”

“Yes. I seek answers my lady; ones you may be able to supply. Tell me, who leads the Valkyries?”

“Skuld does, with Hrist as her aide,” Frigga told him, searching his expression. “Why?”

Heimdall thought how best to frame his next words. “I have seen one go missing, and wonder why no one seeks her.”

“Missing?” Frigga looked slightly alarmed. “When? How?”

“Last night, on the bifrost. This morning when I looked to the north hall there was no sign of anyone searching for her,” he replied.

Frigga frowned. “That is odd. Their sisterhood is legendary, and their bonds strong. Are you sure you saw a valkyrie?”

“I am,” came the careful reply. “She is safe.”

The goddess looked at him, one tiny corner of her mouth going up. “I see. Very well, Guardian, I will find out why no-one is searching for her. What is her name?”

“I do not know, my lady,” Heimdall admitted. “Her hair is the color of autumn and her wings cinder. If you discover anything, please leave word with my steward.”

“I shall,” Frigga promised. “I shall.”

That done, Heimdall bowed himself out and strode to the battlegrounds to take practice against all comers there, feeling a need to vent some of the frustration within himself.

It was a good day for battle, and hours later, when twenty warriors young and old had been bested with sword, spear, and dagger, Heimdall toweled himself off and headed home, anticipating a quiet lounge in the bath before dinner. He made his way down the hills of Asgard in the golden light of the late afternoon, wondering what he would find at home. Would his Valkyrie (and odd as it was he had begun to think of her that way) be there, or would she have departed? Would there be news from Lady Frigga?

Heimdall chose not to Gaze ahead to find out.

He found himself slightly melancholy at the thought that his guest might have left. Not many visitors came to his home; Heimdall guarded his privacy. Being witness to the glories and follies of the universe through the centuries made him that much more appreciative of his solitude, but there were times now and again when company would be . . . nice.

The gates opened for him and he moved through the main hall, helmet under one arm. Hjor glided over and took it from him. “Master.”

“Yes, I must bathe,” Heimdall admitted, aware that his servant was trying not to make a face. It was an old routine between them, as predictable and comforting as a blanket. “Is our guest still here?”

“She is,” came the calm reply. “She has been at work on your armor most of the day and is now in the garden, weeding.”

“And how _fares_ she?” Heimdall wanted to know. 

The elderly servant gave a smile, a small and pleased one. “She is a hard worker. Once I showed her what to do, she set to it with a will and barely took time for the mid-day meal. Your armor has not been so polished in . . . well, a long time.”

Heimdall gave a snort. “A task well-suited to one who bears the same to the warriors; I am sure she has done it well. That would have been enough.”

“Yes,” Hjor agreed, “but she asked permission to work in the garden. I suppose since she was within view of it as she worked, she noticed it needed weeding.”

Heimdall nodded, and a thought occurred to him. “What do you know of Valkyries, Hjor?”

The steward gave a faint frown. “I know what everyone in Asgard knows, Master. The Valkyries brew and bear mead for Odin’s warriors; they accompany the fallen back from battle and prepare them for Valhalla.”

Something in the older man’s expression made Heimdall raise an eyebrow and Hjor gave a little cough. “They are a proud company, and do not associate with anyone but themselves and their consorts within the court.”

Heimdall nodded. “Very true. Pride does seem to be a strong element to their natures.”

“Not this one,” Hjor murmured, and bowed, moving off to attend to some other matter. Heimdall made his way to the garden, aware of how neglected it had been of late. Hjor’s grandson usually came to tend it, but the lad had been accepted as a guard up at the palace and ever since then . . .

Heimdall heard humming. He looked and saw the Valkyrie stroking one of the rosemary bushes, her hands cupping the branches and lightly caressing the leaves. The gesture looked decidedly . . . less than innocent, and he fought back a little surge of interest. 

She looked up, catching his gold-eyed gaze and smiled. Heimdall was struck by the enchanting mix of girl and woman in that smile; the way it combined sweetness and joy with something earthier, something the Valkyrie herself didn’t seem aware of. “Lord Heimdall,” she dipped her head slightly. “It seems your garden needs me.”

“It has told you this?” he rumbled, a slight smile crossing his face.

“It has,” she nodded. “Nothing here has been nurtured in ages, and the weeds are openly mocking your herbs. This cannot be allowed to continue.”

“Ah,” Heimdall replied, amused. “Yes, I agree. This injustice must be rectified to restore peace. What strategy do you suggest?”

“A full assault on the insouciant interlopers,” the Valkyrie offered, shaking her head. “They cannot be allowed a stranglehold through the mint and sage. Further, the rosemary is getting woody and should be trimmed back to encourage it to put out more tender leaves. And all of it should be fed of course—not a pleasant job but I will not mind doing it.” 

Heimdall, still aware of his own aroma, looked around the garden and gave a slow nod. “You speak as one who knows much about the subject. Hjor would be glad of your assistance and can provide you with whatever you need. We shall discuss more of this over dinner.”

She gave a startled look, but Heimdall turned from her, lumbering his way out of the garden and towards the thermal pool in the pavilion on the far side of the main house, feeling a need to clean his body—

And his thoughts. 

Hot springs fed the pool and the waters from them were carried off by the aqueducts to feed back into the seas around Asgard. Heimdall counted himself lucky to have his own pool, since most homes did not, but as the Son of Nine Mothers he held sway with the waters in a way denied to most others. Usually he found it soothing to bathe, but this particular evening he found himself far too aware of his own flesh, and how long it had been since he’d held it against any other. 

Consequently it annoyed him, since the little Valkyrie was a guest for the moment, and not anyone he should be interested in. Therefore Heimdall scrubbed himself clean and climbed out rather than lounge, as was his usual custom. After he had dressed he cast his Gaze towards the Northernmost hall again, looking once more for some sign of distress and finding none.

Most peculiar.


	2. Chapter 2

The table held his preferred assortment of meats and other fare including cheese, grapes and heavy-grain bread. At the other end sat the Valkyrie, looking small, nervous, and hungry. Her wings were neatly folded, although Heimdall could see bent and missing feathers here and there, her face and hands were clean.

He also realized how far away the other end of the table was, and beckoned her closer, patting the left hand side of the table. For a moment she didn’t seem to understand his gesture, but moved once she did, rising and skittering over, out of arm’s reach but much closer than she’d been before. Hjor discreetly moved her plate and setting as Heimdall managed a smile.

“I do not bite,” he assured her. 

She looked at him with a quick assessing glance, and finally smiled. “I know. It has been so long since I was at a table that I have forgotten my manners.”

Heimdall paused, and instead of asking questions, he pulled one of the serving dishes closer and put a large portion of meat on her plate. He doled out nearly twice as much for himself, and nodded to the other dishes, waiting to see what she would choose.

She hesitated, and that confirmed a little suspicion for him. 

Casually he reached over and set a cluster of the bigger grapes on her plate, and gave her a slab of the cheese before loading his own plate. “I find Hjor’s choices to be commendable in both food and drink,” Heimdall murmured. “Once you try them I know you shall agree.”

He ate, slowly and deliberately, making it a point to keep his gaze and conversation away from his table mate’s plate. Even as Heimdall did so, he noted how furtively she ate, and when she slipped a handful of grapes from the table to tuck into a pocket, he fought a sigh. When he had finished, Heimdall looked at his guest and spoke once more.

“Valkyrie you are welcome here and I accept your offer of service for my garden, but in fair return I ask again your name.”

She caught his golden gaze and although it seemed to go against her caution she nodded, slowly. “I am called . . . Maevae.”

“Maevae,” Heimdall echoed, liking the sound of it. The name suited her very well even though it was not a common one in Asgard. 

“Yes. I think Hjor will need my help in the kitchen,” she replied, clearly seeking to avoid any questions. Heimdall watched her stack and carry the plates, wondering if he should follow or not when a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

Rising, Heimdall went to answer it himself, and on the other side stood a young messenger from the palace. He handed over a note with Frigga’s seal on it, bowed and departed. Heimdall watched him go, and then opened the missive, reading it carefully.

_Lady Skuld is away, but her second, Hrist, tells me that no Valkyrie is missing; however a changeling who works as a servant in the hall has run away and may be up to mischief. Her name is Maevae. If there are further complications, I entrust you to deal with them, Guardian._

_Frigga_

Heimdall considered matters and decided that after his guest was safely asleep he would make a visit to the hall of the Valkyries, since he had several questions and behind them, a few suspicions.  
In the kitchen, Hjor was trying not to let Maevae help but she kept darting around him, fetching towels and drying dishes even as he shook his head.

“I’m capable of doing these dishes, my lady,” he chided softly. Heimdall watched from the doorway as Maevae deftly wiped a tureen dry and spun it in her hands, catching it a moment later.  
“It goes faster with two, and faster means you can rest sooner,” she replied. “More time to sit by the fire and warm yourself.”

“I suppose,” the steward conceded, and Heimdall cleared his throat to announce himself. 

They both looked at him, startled, and Maevae set the tureen down carefully before wiping her hands on her robe.

“Since you know best how to bring my garden back to its former glory, I leave you scrolls and ink to make a list, and Hjor will see to it that whatever you need is brought in the next few days,” Heimdall rumbled softly. “In the meantime you are my guest, under my hospitality and protection, Maevae of the grey wings.”

“I . . . I shouldn’t stay,” she blustered, blushing. “You and yours have been too kind already.”

“You would leave my garden in mid-battle between weeds and herbs?” came his coaxing tease. “Think of the consequences. I prefer mint over milkweed for my tea.”

“The garden, yes,” Maevae murmured distractedly. “It does need help . . .”

“I look forward to your victory against the ursurpers. In the meantime I have errands of my own and my watch. I shall return late. Goodnight,” Heimdall shot his steward a meaningful look that said _‘see that she sleeps well.’_

Hjor nodded slightly; his way of saying, _‘I shall.’_

Heimdall made his way to the stable and saddled Gulltoppr. The golden-maned stallion affectionately nibbled his sleeve, waited patiently for him to mount up, and then dutifully trotted up along the main road through Asgard, passing by houses and fields, heading upward. Heimdall didn’t hurry, and kept his Gaze wide as he took in the peace of the land around him. Soon he would have to return to his post on the bifrost, but for now it was time to talk to Hrist.

The hall of the Valkyries stood on the north slope, imposing and elegant with tall pillars, trees heavy with fruit, and splashing fountains. Heimdall noted the grounds were well-cared for, and the aura of pride shone through in a way that left Heimdall bemused. After a thousand years of seeing the universe not much openly impressed him anymore. It wasn’t a matter of being jaded but of accepting the spectrum of the Nine Worlds.

He let Gulltoppr loose along the little paddock near the front doors and mounted the steps, his gold armor glittering in the torch light. The slender Valkyrie who opened the door took a step back and bowed in quiet acknowledgement. “Guardian.”

“I am here to see Lady Hrist,” he rumbled. 

This seemed to alarm the Valkyrie slightly but she nodded and indicated that Heimdall should follow her. They walked through the front hall and he caught sight of grand furnishings that rivaled those in Odin’s dwellings, although most of the statuary involved dying warriors and their rescue.

More grand doors stood before him and when they opened (with more dramatic flourish than necessary, Heimdall thought) the tall, hawk-faced Valkyrie sitting there looked up from a series of scrolls in irritation.

“Guardian. What brings you to this hall? Have you seen a battle that requires us?” she asked. Her dark curls were elaborately dressed and her armor, although silver, gleamed nearly as much as his own. Heimdall noted the imperious lift of her chin, the arch of her heavy dark wings.

“I have not, Lady Hrist. I come seeking information.”

He noted a glint of something in her eyes; cunning. She smiled and set aside her scroll, rising to look him in the eyes. “Lady Skuld is away, but I shall do my best to supply you with what you seek, Guardian. Ask away.”

“A day ago, I told our queen of a Valkyrie who made an unfortunate flight from the bifrost; a Valkyrie with grey wings. As Guardian it is my duty to report what I have seen and let those of Asgard take action as needed.”

“Ahhhh,” Hrist nodded, and her face took on a new expression, one of minimal sorrow. “That explains Lady Frigga’s question. Well the girl you speak of was no Valkyrie, Guardian, not at all. She was little more than a kitchen scullery here, and prone to mischief. I know it is unkind to speak ill of the dead but the girl caused a great deal of trouble here and perhaps what has happened is for the best.”

“I thought wings were the hallmark of the valkyries,” Heimdall murmured, his gaze and his Gaze upon her. Something darkened within the woman before him, a smoke in her soul.

“They are. _True_ wings, the wings of those who seek prey and win battles,” Hrist told him with pride. “Our wings are strong enough to let us carry warriors, Guardian. Maevae—the servant we speak of--had but dove’s wings. Pitifully small, barely enough to lift herself, which is why she had no right to claim sisterhood with us. She was left here many years ago, a foundling wrapped in a robe with a dove to watch over her.”

“A dove?” Heimdall asked, intrigued.

Hrist made a moue. “A mere dove. A bird to be hunted and eaten. In any case she never fit in, always underfoot, and once—“ the woman paused, but Heimdall waited, giving her an encouraging nod. She continued. “Once we permitted her to come to a battlefield in Muspelheim and see us in our duties. Instead of glorying in our care of the brave fallen, she _wept,_ Guardian. She wept and for _all_ of them, even the enemy! Our hall had never been so dishonored as we were that day!”

Heimdall saw the agitated flutter of Hrist’s wings, the hard set of the valkyrie’s mouth. He saw again the shadow within her roil.

“So you believe she was never a true valkyrie,” he murmured.

“Never,” Hrist all but spat. “She shamed us all on that day and I made sure that she understood from then on that her place was in the kitchen, out of sight.”

“Did you know who left her?”

“No,” Hrist seemed to control herself once more and managed a short shake of her head. “She was most likely a Changeling; some fae or elven spawn untraded or lost and sent our way.” 

Heimdall Gazed again into the woman before him and saw the shadow twist as she spoke, her tone cautious. “I am curious, Guardian; why do you ask after one single being out of the millions you see every night? Surely you have more to do that follow the story of a sad drudge and her pathetic end?”

“All are equal in my eyes, Lady Hrist,” Heimdall reminded her, his own tone slightly curt. “I thought it peculiar that no-one reported her missing.”

Hrist waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, her gaze irritated. “Someone would have, I am sure, but she was only a kitchen scullery, not a warrior, Guardian. Her passing is but a small matter among gods is it not?”

That was enough, and Heimdall drew himself up, nostrils flaring slightly. “I only see, Lady Hrist, it is not my place to judge,” he replied, his voice empty of warmth. “If Maevae had any personal effects I will take them to her resting place.”

Hrist gave another irritated sigh and reached for a bell pull, setting off a chime. Instantly the valkyrie who had shown him in appeared, and Heimdall had little doubt she had been waiting behind the door.

“Prima, take the Guardian to the kitchens and let him speak to the staff there, then make sure he finds his way back _out_ again,” Hrist ordered firmly. To Heimdall she added, “I hope this ends the matter, Guardian.”

Heimdall gave her the barest of nods and moved to follow the skittish Valkyrie, Prima, who led the way through the hall and into another side room that had a maze-like corridor. It took several turns, each going a bit deeper into the mountain and by the time they reached the kitchen, Heimdall had to stoop a little.

The space opened out again to a large room with two enormous fireplaces at each end, and what appeared to be an army of nisse and dwarves working with pots, pans, spits and knives. Directing it all was a brawny woman with tired eyes. She saw Heimdall and froze, then gave a deep bow as she wiped her floury hands on her apron. “Lord Guardian Heimdall,” she croaked in melodic voice.

From where he stood he could see she had but one wing; the other was but a bone stump rising from behind her other shoulder.

“Hearth Mistress,” he replied, the old honorific rolling off his tongue. She blushed and he knew he’d chosen the title well, giving her a compliment.

“Sir. What . . .” the woman looked at Prima, and getting no help there continued, “what may I and mine do for you?”

“There was a maid who worked here; Maevae. I have come to collect whatever belongings she may have had.”

The woman looked alarmed, sad, and surprised all in one. “Maevae! Where is she, what’s happened? Is she hurt?”

Heimdall moved closer, his Gaze taking in the flare of pain and fear deep in the woman’s chest. Choosing his words carefully, he spoke. “Maevae is no longer suffering. It is my duty to reunite her with her belongings.” Turning from the Valkyrie, Heimdall held the Hearth Mistress’ gaze and slowly, deliberately, winked one golden eye.

The Hearth Mistress blinked, and slowly some hint of understanding rose in her expression. She gave a nod. “No longer suffering. That’s good for her then. She suffered down here, that’s for certain.”

“Keep to your place,” Prima murmured, but without malice. “We each have our duty.”

“Yes, my lady,” the Hearth Mistress muttered, “although some had more duty than they should have; you know it was true. Come this way, Guardian, I’ll show you her corner. Vandari, more heat to that kettle, and mind the others.”

She led Heimdall around another corner, this one tucked away near the furthest hearth, and waved a hand to it. “Her things, what she had of them.” Dropping her voice she added, “Tell me she lives, Guardian. Please.”

Heimdall bent to collect the ragged child’s blanket, the three green stones and the polished horn cup. As he rose he let his whisper rumble low enough for the Hearth Mistress’ ear. “She does.”

“Thank you,” The Hearth Mistress nodded, her eyes bright. “I shall sleep easier this night for that.”

“Not a word to anyone,” Heimdall warned and straightened up, his voice louder as he added, “Anything else?”

“Just the bones of her dove,” the Hearth Mistress replied, scooping them up from the ledge of the fireplace. “Maevae kept them here to stay warm.”

Heimdall accepted them, feeling a tingle as the ivory little twigs dropped into his palm. Gazing, he saw the soft glow of magic in them, and nodded, pouring them into the horn cup. “Very well. Thank you for your courtesy Hearth Mistress.”

He looked again at her and saw the relief in her eyes. “Guardian.”

Heimdall didn’t linger, and once he was on Gulltoppr, he rode out quickly, Maevae’s worldly goods safely tucked into his armor. He cast his Gaze up and saw, circling high above, a single valkyrie.  
He let Gulltoppr gallop all the way down the hillside and long the glittering length of the bifrost, his mount’s hooves striking multicolored sparks into the growing darkness. Heimdall knew the valkyrie was still watching him, but he ignored her and moved to his post, taking up his spot and going about his duty, his Gaze sweeping the night sky steadily.

Heimdall had much to think about. He cast a Gaze homeward, gratified to see that Maevae was curled up in a small feathered ball on the bed in the guest room, and considered what to do. The woman had long been mistreated, that was certain, and he had no intention of returning her to the hall, not after what he had Seen within Lady Hrist.

He considered Maevae’s belongings as he watched the skies. Three green stones. Granted, Heimdall knew little of the casting of stones, but it was possible they held some secret. Too, the small blanket might hold a clue as well and with that in mind, Heimdall wondered who best to ask. Overhead the gleaming stars shone on through the hours as he let his thoughts gain focus.

Heimdall relaxed. The Nine Realms held few secrets from him, and over the centuries he’d cultured patience in looking over them. In his time he’d seen much. Cruelty. Valor. Compassion. Sacrifice. Joy. The kaleidoscope of the universe took those familiar elements and shifted them into patterns that constantly surprised him in their new combinations. Odin might have the title of Allfather, but deep inside, Heimdall felt he was the one with a true kinship to the billions of souls within his Gaze.

Little occurred that would be worth reporting to Odin, he noted as his duty ended at dawn. A gathering of disgruntled trolls in Jötunheimr; two border skirmishes in Svartálfaheimr—small matters to be watched, nothing more. In a few days time he would probably have to send the Warriors Three to both places, but not until the Allfather gave word.

Gulltoppr was glad to be let out to his paddock after his rubdown, and Heimdall entered the hall quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone. Hjor would be up in a few hours but until then the quiet lay over all like a quilt. He slipped off his armor, hanging it on its rack, made his way to his room, and some part of him was not surprised to find Maevae curled up on the bed there.

He fished out the cup and stones, laying them on the stand, and then with a gentleness Heimdall hadn’t known he had, he draped the smudge-stained blanket over her. As it fluttered down, Maevae gave a little contented sigh and one sleepy hand clutched an edge of it even though she never woke. Heimdall took a moment to look at her; not a Gaze but a simple study and within him rose a surge of new emotions as fresh and hopeful as a young tangle vine.

He smiled.

Carefully he made his way to the guest room and lay down on a bed slightly short for his frame and closed his eyes, finding peace and sleep very quickly.


	3. Chapter 3

When Heimdall opened his eyes again, there were flowers in his room. He noted the vase of Saxifrage, their purple petals wide as they sat, bunched into one of the kitchen mugs. Rising, Heimdall moved to pick one out and sniff it, enjoying the light fragrance. He wondered if Maevae had dared to bring them in herself, or if Hjor had done so at her request. Either way it was a kind gesture and he tucked the blossom back with the others before he rose and dressed.

The trip to make his report didn’t take long, and Heimdall returned shortly, making his way to the stable to greet Gulltoppr first, and then strolling to the garden, wondering what he would find.

A mess, apparently. Piles of weeds lined the gate and the rich scent of manure—a gift from Gulltoppr—hung on the afternoon air. Heimdall watched as Maevae vigorously hoed part of the kitchen herb area, muttering under her breath. She had dirt all over her robe and smudges along her arms and forehead, but her grin flashed brilliantly as she spoke. “I have your number now, weeds, oh yes I do. This is no longer free land for your like, not at all. Go back to the other side of the fence and let this fennel alone!”

“How goes the battle, Cygnet?” Heimdall asked, startling her. 

She spun, clutching the hoe defensively, but when she saw him, relaxed, her white teeth flashing.

“It’s a near thing, but I believe the weeds are on retreat, Guardian. You can see their fallen yonder.”

“I am sure my mount will dispose of their remains gladly,” Heimdall nodded, trying to stay serious and not managing it. He smiled, and that seemed to make Maevae blush; she set the hoe down and made an attempt to wipe the dirt from her hands as she slowly approached him.

“Lord Heimdall, thank you,” she told him quietly, “for bringing my things. I hope there was no trouble. Eir was always good to me as were the others in the kitchens.”

“Eir knows you are safe,” Heimdall told her. “But not Lady Hrist.”

At the mention of the Valkyrie’s name he saw her shudder very slightly, and seizing the moment, Heimdall added, “There is something within her that is . . . dangerous. I saw it when I spoke to her, and I believe it is best if she thinks you dead, Maevae.”

“Yes,” came the girl’s quick reply. “Yes. Best.”

Heimdall moved closer. “She cannot harm you here,” he rumbled quietly. “You are under my protection.”

Maevae looked up at him, blinking a little, her smile stronger now. “Thank you for that. Yes, there is something within her that is not within the other battle maidens, a dark cloud. I once tried to tell Eir about it but she told me to keep that sight to myself.”

“It may be an illness,” Heimdall nodded, “but it is there. Some maladies thrive in the soul rather than the body; it may be such with her.”

Maevae shrugged, her wings fluttering. “True. In any case, I hope time will help her heal. And in the meantime, I will be able to keep my promise to your garden.”

He looked around. “You do seem to have a gift for it. The flowers were very kind of you.”

“Saxifrage is good for dreams,” Maevae nodded. “The bees have told me so.”

Heimdall arched an eyebrow at her. “The bees.”

“From the third hive,” Maevae told him. “I was there when their queen was born and they have welcomed me as a sister. The bees know every flower in Asgard, their uses and flavors and habits. From them I know that most weeds do not like being insulted, and that if you scold them in daylight they shrink. Well, all but the worm roses, who are deaf anyway.”

Heimdall glanced down at a large yellow one, and Maevae bent down. “Hey! Out of this garden right now! Off with you and don’t come back!” she shouted at the plant. It didn’t move at all, and she shrugged. “If she’s still here tomorrow I’ll make a salad of her.”

“That will certainly be an example to the others,” Heimdall murmured, tickled at her earnestness. He hadn’t teased anyone in ages and though he was rusty at it, the banter felt nice.

“I’m sorry you had to see my ruthless side,” Maevae twinkled at him. “It’s frightening, I know.”

“Grim situations,” Heimdall waved at the garden, “require much of us. However, I must go to the market today; what shall I bring back for you?”

“Seeds mayhap,” Maevae replied. “Perhaps ground shells for the flowers . . .”

“No maid, I am not speaking of the garden this time,” Heimdall patiently pointed out. “You have but one robe, no shoes and I mean to correct that. No guest in my house will go wanting. The colder season is coming and it will not do to have you fall ill.”

Maevae pulled back a little, her wings fluttering. “Guardian, there is no need--”

“That is where you are wrong,” Heimdall told her. “There _is_ a need. You are doing me and my garden a great service and payment is only fair. I will collect a list from Hjor concerning supplies for the house and it would help greatly if you would add what would be most useful for you. This is not charity,” he pointed out, “but compensation for your toil.”

He watched her grapple this new concept, her gaze wondering, and Heimdall turned back to the house, considering what other supplies to purchase.

\--oo00oo--

Hjor was an excellent steward with many connections in the market; normally he did the shopping himself but Heimdall had taken up the task in the last few years, knowing that the long ride up and down the hills of Asgard were difficult on the older man’s bones. He didn’t mind; it was nice to move among the citizens and attend to simple matters. Heimdall knew he had a unique duty, but he still harbored all the basic needs and interests of any other man, and there was contentment to be found in attending to them.

The list held all the staples he was expecting, but at the bottom, Hjor had added the name of two shops whose names Heimdall had seen before yet had never visited. He knew the first was a dressmaker, but the second . . . Still, tucking the list away, Heimdall saddled his mount and road to the market, aware that the day had clouds; Thor must be brooding, he thought. Gulltoppr moved slowly, enjoying the trip as well, and waited patiently with the other horses when Heimdall turned him out at the far yard and paid for a pint of oats as well.

He started at the far end and worked his way back, shouldering the goods easily and keeping an eye out for rain. Most of the usual vendors nodded to him respectfully; a few set aside his order even before he approached them. When the majority of the supplies were bought, Heimdall moved to the dress shop, feeling a pang of uncertainty as he crossed the threshold.

The tall couple inside looked at him from their worktable, both of them surprised but not intimidated. The man gave a nod, rising and helping his mate up before speaking. “Guardian, you honor us.”

Heimdall inclined his head, feeling slightly foolish. “The honor is mine. I have need of clothing for a guest. A female.”

“A woman,” the woman corrected him, but kindly. “I am Aesa and this is Fari, sir. How tall a woman is she?”

Heimdall considered and brought a hand up to his collarbone. “Just so. She has wings and is . . . well-proportioned.”

“Wings you say?” Fari rumbled, smiling. “A Valkyrie?”

Heimdall shook his head. “Her wings are not as large as theirs; they are more in keeping with her size. Currently she has neither dresses nor sandals nor whatever else a female—woman—generally needs.”

The two dressmakers looked at each other, communicating more in that glance than Heimdall felt comfortable with, and then turned to him with identical smiles. 

“Very well, Lord Heimdall. What is her coloring?” Aesa asked, pulling out a scroll as Fari moved to where bolts of various fabrics were stacked on shelves. Heimdall told her, his Gaze taking in the shop with interest. A few kittens peeked out from behind a basket of wool, and a caged bird hung high overhead warbling in the background.

“We have an uncut roll of unbleached linen and some of the sand colored felt left, love,” Fari called back to this wife.

“Good for a start, good,” came the reply. To Heimdall she added, “We can begin, but it would be helpful to see your guest in person to make sure the garments fit correctly.”

“You are welcome to Himingbjorg at any time,” Heimdall assured her. “I will leave word with my steward, Hjor.”

“Very well. Er, how many garments do you want us to make? Most folk have at least three for everyday wear, and then there are cloaks for the cold, and—“ Aesa began, but Heimdall waved a hand.

“Whatever is appropriate for a guest of mine. I think she needs a gown for the royal hall as well. Here is a down payment--” Heimdall laid down a leather pouch of gold and jewels, “—and I will pay whatever else is needed. I would be grateful for any garment that can be finished today.”

“We will do our best,” Fari nodded, noting the money but not making a move towards it.

“Thank you.” Heimdall took his leave, feeling slightly relieved. Both of the dressmakers looked as if they would be able to fulfill his requests, and now it was time to go to the other shop.

It was off of the main market, and Heimdall stepped into it moments later, aware of several eyes watching him; not all of them were friendly. A fierce eagle glared at him from a perch high up in the shop, and several snakes in rickety baskets slithered about as he entered. A little round woman came out from behind a curtain, her gaze surprised as she took him in. “Guardian Heimdall isn’t it?”

He gave a small bow. “I am. I seek information and goods for the care of wings.”

The little woman cocked her head. “I am called Gulthir, and I do know something about wings. What breed is your bird?”

“She is a winged being,” Heimdall said. “Smaller than a Valkyrie, but along the same lines. Some of her feathers are damaged and missing.”

“Ahhh,” Gulthir murmured thoughtfully. “Well, we have a showerbucket on a stick, very useful for washing them, and a roughened mitt that helps to work loose feathers free during molting. Also, some ointments that help keep a sheen over one’s feathers.”

“I will take them all,” Heimdall told her, trying not to think of Maevae bathing. 

Gulthir nodded and spoke again. “There is a tonic too, that if sipped will help strengthen them. It contains juice from Iðunn’s apples, though, which makes it rather dear. Even the Valkyries themselves cannot afford it very often.”

Heimdall handed over another pouch of precious stones. “She is in need of it.”

Gulthir gave him a compassionate look. “It is hard to see suffering, Guardian, I know. Let me fetch it.” 

The bottle was small and made of rough stone; Gulthir set it down reverently. “Two swigs—one for each wing—in the morning. Do this every three days since its effects are strong. This should help greatly.”

Heimdall thanked her and put the bottle into his tunic, feeling a little relieved. He made his way back to Gulltoppr and rode back down the hill, enjoying the view of the vast sea surrounding Asgard. By the time he came through the gates of home, it was nearly noon and he felt hungry. Hjor had thoughtfully set out figs, cheese and bread along with mead. There was no-one else around, so Heimdall carried the food out towards the garden, where he found his steward and his guest setting up a beehive.

Cautiously he looked around and noted a swarm hovering high near one of the birches, swirling lazily. They didn’t seem to be particularly agitated, and Heimdall moved closer. 

“They prefer a shaded spot, out of the wind,” Maevae was saying. “This little corner in the bird cherry will be perfect.”

“It will be good to have them in the garden,” Hjor murmured, hanging the woven basket from a sturdy branch and lashing it firmly. “And lucky that we were able to borrow a hive basket at such short notice.”

Maevae nodded, and Heimdall saw her catch sight of him, brightening as she did so. The effect made his pulse jump a bit, and he strode over, striving for his usual dignity. “Am I to assume that those—” He pointed up at the birch, “are the third hive?”

“Yes!” Maevae agreed, laughing a little. “Apparently they miss me, and I am delighted that they found me. You—”she hesitated, “You don’t _mind_ , do you?”

“Mind?” Heimdall replied, looking up at the swarm. “Fresh honey and wax in due time? They are as welcome here as you are yourself.”

She blushed, and glanced up at the bees to hide it. “Thank you again, my lord. They will be generous in their occupation, I know it.”

He nodded, and a bell rang out; someone at the door. Heimdall gave Hjor a reassuring look and moved to answer it himself, hoping it might be the dressmakers.

It was not. The messenger from the Royal Hall handed Heimdall the scroll and stood waiting for a possible reply. The Guardian recognized Frigga’s seal and read her note.

_Guardian,_

_I have received a snide note from Hrist about your visit to the hall of the Valkyries. She accuses you of rudeness and further claims that you have somehow bewitched one of the cultivated hives into swarming. The first charge I disbelieve and the second merely amuses me. Nevertheless, it may be best to avoid their hall for the time being. I hope matters thus are settled. We hope to see you for the feast two days from now._

_Frigga_

Heimdall rolled up the paper again and looked to the messenger. “Tell my lady that I shall be attending the feast, and give her my thanks.”

The lad nodded and took off at a dignified jog, passing by a cart that had just pulled up to the gate. Heimdall recognized Aesa and Fari, nodding to them. “Welcome to my home.”

When Maevae was introduced to them she spluttered and blushed and looked so uncomfortable that Heimdall found himself perplexed.

“Clothes are necessary,” he reminded her, and looked to the dressmakers. “In two days we will be attending a feast at the royal hall.”

“What?” Maevae spluttered while the dressmakers perked up.

“Purple,” Aesa murmured triumphantly. “Oh thank Heiðrún I thought of packing that bolt of light wool.”

“You are always brilliant my dear,” Fari assured her. “With pearls perhaps, or silver ornamentation. Leave all to us, Guardian, we will not fail you.”

Heimdall bowed, hiding his smile, and retreated to his library allowing himself a small sense of smugness as the dressmakers began soothing Maevae and asking her questions about what fabrics she preferred. He prowled the shelves, looking for a scroll he knew he had but hadn’t touched in years, and when he found it a while later, Heimdall pulled it out, blowing off the dust.

Bee-keeping. Perhaps Maevae would find it useful.

\--oo00oo--

By twilight the dressmakers had left and Heimdall prepared himself for duty. He donned his armor and carried his helmet when Maevae, now elegant in a light cream tunic met him in the hall. Impulsively the maid hugged him, her wings fluttering as she did so. “Thank you,” came her whisper. “Never have I had such finery as this, Lord Hemdall. I will do my best to repay you!”

“Nay, Maevae; they are a gift,” Heimdall replied softly. “You are doing wonders for my garden and I am entitled to celebrate.”

“You are too generous, but I am so very grateful,” she replied, stretching up on tiptoe to meet his gold-eyed gaze. “I know you must go, but I wanted to thank you before you left.”

He smiled, aware again of how the whole of her cheered him. She looked nothing like most Asgardians, and that in itself made her fascinating. “You are welcome. I left a scroll for you on the library table.”

Maevae blinked. “Oh. Ah, thank you.”

It was there again in her tone, and Heimdall knew he would have to tread carefully, so he spoke again, softly. “It is on the keeping of bees and I will read it to you when I return, but there are several illustrations that may interest and help you. Now I must go.”

He left her and walked in solitude down the short path and onto the bifrost, not looking back, feeling slightly foolish, which was a new sensation. Heimdall turned his Gaze upward to distract himself from thoughts of Maevae, concentrating on sweeping over the other eight realms even before he reached his post at the end of the bifrost.

There were battles between the trolls and the ice giants in Jotunnheim, and some natural disasters moving through Midgard as Heimdall watched, his stance perfectly still. Only his strong hands betrayed him, fiddling on the handle of his sword. He tried to let the hours flow through him and keep his concentration out there but for the first time it drifted, circling around the continuing mystery of his guest.


	4. Chapter 4

Hjor was waiting to speak to him. Heimdall handed his helmet over and nodded for the servant to speak, aware of the elder man’s concerned expression.

“Lady Maevae is working too hard,” Hjor began, his tone firm. “I have tried to remind her she is a guest, but she insists on pushing herself far more than she should. I’m grateful for what she has done, but I worry about her strength.”

“She toiled in the kitchens for the Valkyries for years,” Heimdall replied. “From what I gathered there, hard work is the rule, and I think she feels obligated to repay our kindnesses.” Before Hjor could protest, Heimdall continued. “We must be patient and distract her.”

“My lord?”

“She is proud,” Heimdall pointed out quietly, “and rightly so.”

Hjor gave a little nod, his expression showing a hint of exasperation combined with good humor. “As you say, my lord. She waits for you in the library.”

Heimdall found Maevae there, leaning on her elbows and looking at the scroll he’d left for her, her wings occasionally fluttering as she concentrated. He cleared his throat so his approach wouldn’t startle her, and felt warmed by her quick smile.

“These drawings make me laugh,” she told him forthrightly. “Every bee here has a sting that is much too large. I think the artist must have been afraid of his subject.”

Heimdall looked to where she was pointing and noted she was correct; the over-stylized illustrations did make the insects out to be far more frightening than they should have been. He shook his head.

“Not very observant then. I wonder if his writing is as flawed. Shall we see?”

Before Maevae could object or blush or say anything, Heimdall moved to her side, pressed his finger to the first line of runes and slowly dragged it along as he read aloud. “Behold the timeless workers of the field and garden: the lowly bee. Mindless and small, they gather for others without tiring--”

“Oh that’s wrong and insulting,” Maevae shook her head, “how unkind. Bees aren’t like that at all! In truth they know time far better than many _other_ animals, you and I included. They know the weather, too—watch your hive and you’ll exactly know when rain is coming. And as for mindless, that’s just a load of Iðunn’s applecores. How could they ever build hives or protect the same if they didn’t know what they were doing?”

“Agreed,” Heimdall replied lightly. “Perhaps this was written by someone ordered to cover the subject instead of being interested in it.”

“Please read me a little more,” Maevae asked, looking down at the scroll. “Maybe it gets better.”

It did not, Heimdall realized a few moments later, trying not to smile as his companion indignantly squirmed. The writer had gone on to further insult bees, calling them Loki’s tiniest aggravations and insinuating that the kindest use was to exploit them for the ‘gold they create and do not appreciate.’ 

Out of the corner of his eye he noted that Maevae gritting her teeth. He stopped, and laid a hand on her shoulder, his knuckles brushing feathers as he did so. “This is upsetting you,” Heimdall pointed out.

“Only because it is wrong,” Maevae agreed, rolling her eyes. “I have cared for hives for ten years and I still do not know everything about bees, but I understand more than this fool does.”

“Then write the truth,” Heimdall told her. “Why let someone continue this folly when you know so much more than they do?”

She shot him a glance of self-deprecating humor. “As you know, I can neither read nor write, Guardian, else I would do this.”

“You can learn,” Heimdall told her. “And in the meantime, I will write whatever you tell me to write so we do not lose time.”

She blinked, looking into his eyes and her gaze held a mingled collection of hope and disbelief. Heimdall, the one who Saw the universe found himself holding his breath until Maevae gave a cautious little nod.

“You have not lied to me yet, Lord Heimdall, and I cannot figure out why you continue to extend such kindness to me, but your word is as good as Odin’s gold and I believe you. You would teach me this?” She tapped the scroll gently for emphasis.

“Yes.”

She rose up on her tiptoes and before Heimdall quite realized it, pressed a quick, light, kiss at the corner of his mouth. The touch, as light as a feather’s brush made him tingle, and he drew in a breath as Maevae dropped down again, her expression still solemn.

“There. My pledge to learn what you are willing to teach. Thank you.”

Heimdall inclined his head, moved by her words and newly aware of his little guest as both a friend and a woman. 

And in this moment, he could not say which gave him the greater cause for wonder at his own pleased reaction.

*** *** ***

The feast wasn’t the first that Heimdall had attended in his long tenure of service to the Allfather, but it was the first he’d gone to with a companion, and that drew attention as he and Maevae walked into the hall together. He’d warned her ahead of time, coached her through her protests and reluctance.  
“Your presence will do me honor,” he had told her. “And provide me someone pleasant to speak with.”

Maevae had shot him a disbelieving look. “The others are _gods_ and your friends,” she pointed out. “Surely you have more than enough to share with them over venison and mead.”

“Outside of my home I am a man of few words,” Heimdall had murmured. “Believe it or not.”

That had made her laugh. Now they stood just inside the double doors and he felt her hand tighten on his arm as curious gazes turned their way.

“Courage,” Heimdall murmured under his breath and the sound of his voice seemed to steady Maevae.

A blond giant lumbered forth, smiling. “Heimdall, well met! And who is _this_ fair creature?” Thor inclined his head to Maevae, his gaze twinkling.

“Lord Thor,” came his rumble of a reply as they clasped wrists. “This is my guest, Lady Maevae Dovedottir.”

“My lady,” Thor took her hand and kissed it, his gaze shooting to Heimdall. “You grace us with your presence.”

“Lord Thor,” Maevae squeaked, her wings shivering slightly as she looked up. 

“We will require a seat with room for her wings,” Heimdall said firmly, and Thor nodded, waving to the end section of a table that stood in front of an alcove.

“We would be honored to have you there, close enough to see and enjoy all,” Thor replied, and Heimdall didn’t miss the arch of the other man’s eyebrow, nor the quirk of his smile. There would be questions later, he knew, but for now he concerned himself with guiding Maevae to the indicated seats. The soft purple gown flattered her figure and Heimdall noted that Fandral was eyeing the same with unseemly interest.

Maevae’s hand was cold when she gripped his wrist. “I am scared,” she murmured, scooting closer to him on the bench.

Heimdall bent his head to speak in a soothing undertone. “I know, but I am grateful you are here and I will stay by your side.”

“Thank you,” she managed a weak grin at him, and the sight of it, crooked and sweet, made Heimdall blink.

“And who is this _beautiful_ creature? Heimdall, you rascal!” Fandral called, striding up to the table and giving a swaggering bow. It was overdone and playful as ever but Heimdall felt a sense of irritation despite the other man’s cheery smile.

“Lord Heimdall is _not_ a rascal,” Maevae spoke up, frowning. “I am Maevae Dovedottir and you must be the one called Fandral.”

It amused Heimdall to see warrior taken slightly aback by Maevae’s defense. He said nothing, and Fandral recovered, still grinning.

“Perhaps ‘rascal’ is too harsh,” the other man agreed. “I only meant to compliment him in choice of charming companion, my Lady Maevae.”

“Oh,” Maevae looked discomfited and blushed.

Heimdall arched an eyebrow at Fandral. “For once your eyesight is as good as my own.”

This made the other man laugh, and he gave a warmer smile now. “Well countered, Guardian! From what I can see, all the fairest are _taken_ and I must console the rest as best as I possibly can.” With a wink and a bow to Maevae he moved off, and Heimdall felt his companion giggle under her breath.

“That one is as vain as a humming bird,” she whispered.

“It is merely his way; Fandral has a noble heart,” Heimdall assured her, “somewhere within him.”

The sidelong look Maevae shot him and her dimpled smile made him smile in return.

More guests arrived, along with huge platters of food and soon the great hall was crowded with both. The noise level rose and Heimdall found himself grateful that he and Maevae were against a wall instead of in the midst of the throng. As it was, his companion sat quietly near him, her gaze taking it all in with astonishment.

“I thought my sisters feasted well, but this . . .” Maevae whispered as an enormous plank loaded with roasted boar passed by on the shoulders of four servants, “this is beyond belief!”

“It may seem excessive, but the Allfather makes sure what remains will be distributed to all who helped cook the meal and their families as well,” Heimdall told her. “The feast goes well beyond the hall.”

She nodded absently. “So it is said, yes, but to see so much in its first incarnation . . .”

“You and I will try to be moderate,” Heimdall helped her choose selections from the passing trays. A momentary lull in the noise made him look up and at the far end of the hall two Valkyries came through the doors, bearing a cask of mead between them, the barrel gilded and glittering in the light of the torches all around.

“ _Drink,_ warriors of the Allfather!” The elder of them called out, her voice a husky purr. “The richest, the sweetest, the harvested gold is for you!”

A cheer went up from the hall and several warriors surged forth to help the Valkyries with their burden.

Heimdall felt Maevae draw in a quick breath and shrink back. He reached a hand out to lay on her forearm, finding it cold under his touch. “I did not know they would be attending,” he murmured.

“Lady Hrist and Lady Skuld!” Maevae replied in whispery panic. “They cannot see me here!”

“Agreed,” Heimdall nodded, and motioned with his chin. “Slip away while the crowds are lining up for mead, little one. I will make sure you are not noticed.”

He felt her fingers squeeze his arm in quick gratitude, and then Heimdall rose up, seemingly to stretch. Several warriors were already forming queues for the golden barrel and he noted that the senior Valkyrie was smiling brightly as she filled mugs and goblets in quick, practiced moves, passing the mead along the lines. 

However, Hrist was not with her. Discomfited, Heimdall quickly scanned the hall but it was impossible to tell where she might be with ordinary sight; the lights were scattered making odd shadows everywhere, the crowds constantly moving. Shifting his vision a few minutes later, Heimdall searched again, letting his Gaze sweep through the throngs, passing through bone and sinew, stone and wood in his search.

He turned, and finally in the distance caught sight of familiar wings, a curvy shape. She wasn’t moving though, and now Heimdall realized that darkness lingered near her, nearly engulfing her frame with its shadow.

He moved, impatiently pushing through merrymakers, making his way towards Maevae, steps quickening. The passageway had only one torch but Heimdall didn’t need it to see down the length of it, where the shadowy figures stood at the turn of the hall, both of them winged.

The urge to shout rose up, but before he could, one form pushed away from the other with a hiss, and disappeared along the turn. Heimdall surged forward in time to touch Maevae’s shoulder, making her start violently.

“Cygnet,” he rumbled, glancing in the direction of the retreating figure. “What happened? Did she harm you?”

Maevae looked up at him, her face so pale that her freckles stood out on the milk of her skin. “No . . . I’m fine, Lord Heimdall. But it would be best if I left the feast, I think.”

Her voice was flat and oddly calm; Heimdall shot her a worried glance and in response she laid a hand on his breastplate reassuringly. 

Something was still wrong, but it wasn’t the time or place to make demands about it. Heimdall slipped an arm around Maevae’s waist, taking care not to snag her wings as he did so, and carefully he walked out with her through the passageways to a side door of the hall. 

Gulltoppr seemed to sense a need for calm as well, keeping his pace gentle as he cantered down the road bearing them. Heimdall kept one hand holding the reins while the other rested on Maevae’s, which encircled his waist. The cool evening air felt delicious after the close smokiness of the hall, and moonlight tinged the landscape silver, but none of it mattered much to him at the moment.

Something _had_ happened. Now it was a matter of persuading Maevae to tell him what, precisely.


	5. Chapter 5

But when they reached Himingbjorg and Heimdall had seen to his mount, Maevae didn’t go into the hall. She wandered into the dark garden, and he followed her, troubled by how languidly she moved. He’d gotten used to her bounces, her quick and graceful gestures; her light grace. Now Maevae moved like grief.

He stepped closer, determined to get an answer from her and she surprised him once again by turning and sliding her arms up, cool fingers caressing the sides of his neck.

She pulled him down for a kiss, and astonished, Heimdall let her.

The rush of heat that flared through it took his breath away; made him hungry and dizzy all at once as his body responded to this new feast. Without thinking Heimdall slid his strong arms around her and pulled Maevae close, the wave of her allure washing through him as he kissed her again.

With a pleased sigh her lips opened under his, and Heimdall tasted her mouth more deeply, losing focus on everything else as he did so. It had been a long time since he’d kissed anyone, and Maevae’s mouth made his stomach tighten even as his hands moved to cup her face. Reluctantly Heimdall pulled back, trying to focus and hold back the tide of desire within him.

“Maevae,” he managed in a raw and husky voice, intending to speak reason.

“Shhhh,” came her chide, and she pressed closer again, the warmth of her body driving coherent thought away. Heimdall pressed his mouth to hers once more, savoring it, drinking in her flavors and scent. One kiss drifted into another, the slow dance of their tongues intimate and gentle. Heimdall felt drunk on the intoxicating sweetness.

Maevae’s hands moved over him, guiding his, and her soft murmurs encouraged every touch. Together they sank to the soft grass of the garden, entwined. He tried to be slow, but she kept responding to every caress with little sighs of pleasure, and the press of her mouth across his skin seemed to set it aflame.

Heimdall had coupled before; Asgard was full of willing partners particularly for the warriors, and while his dalliances had been enjoyable, none of the relationships had lasted very long. Few maidens were willing to settle for a mere Guardian when there were two handsome princes around, both unwed, and either eligible for the throne. 

But this was Maevae, who had fluttered into his life and now into his arms. She kept her wings folded as she rolled with him on the cool grass, her clever fingers undoing his tunic, baring him to her slow touch. Heimdall allowed himself the pleasure for a few moments before reciprocating, and found that her freckles did indeed extend down her glorious breasts. Those rosy-tipped beauties overflowed his palms and required kisses, as did her shoulders, ribs, and more.

Later, the feel of Maevae’s thighs around his hips as she straddled him in warm, sweet consummation made Heimdall groan, the sound mingling with her delighted little gasps. They rocked together, their bodies finding a rhythm that fueled their mutual hunger with every stroke. Heimdall gripped her hips, his heavy hands wrapping around those curves with loving desperation as the rising crest of desire surged within his shaft, each quick heartbeat matching hers.

He gave a growl then, his lips against the corner of Maevae’s mouth as he climaxed deep between her hips, the maddening pleasure magnified by her snug and welcoming heat. She herself gave a cry drenched in joy, and her own climax was strong enough to shudder her frame. Her wings flexed open in one glorious span as she did so.

Heimdall carried her inside to his bed and let her settle in his arms, marveling at how sweetly Maevae fit there. He slept, deeply, and without dreams.

*** *** *** 

He knew, even before he was fully awake. Heimdall opened his eyes to search the room, feeling a welling of despair as the truth hit him. It took seconds to rise, and minutes to look in each room, finding nothing. There would be no note of course, and yet he wanted one desperately. Hjor silently followed him, and had Gulltoppr ready when Heimdall returned, grim-faced and dressed in armor.

“Stay here in the event our dove returns.”

The steward gave a solemn nod, and Heimdall urged Gulltoppr on, looking to the northern hall with grim determination. They galloped along the main road, encountering no one but a few early farmers bringing goods to market. Heimdall considered his situation, trying to think clearly and finding it difficult to do with the scent of Maevae still on his skin, but logic told him there were only two places she felt safe: Himingbjorg, and the kitchens of the Valkyrie’s hall.

The other, grimmer consideration was that she had not run but had been coerced; forced to return by threat or magic. Both were dangerous and Heimdall sensed that the cloud that Maevae had been in at the feast could well have been Hrist. 

Cursing himself he looked ahead as the groomed lawns of the Valkyrie’s hall came into view. The place looked more austere in the early light, and Heimdall hooked Gulltoppr’s lead to a post before mounting the steps, helmet under his arm.

The same little Valkyrie as before opened to his hard pounding, her gaze wary. “Guardian, what is your errand?”

“I need to see the Lady Hrist. Now,” he added, his courtesy rumbling with a hint of threat. The little Valkyrie eyed him, and then waved Heimdall inside the door.

“Stand here,” she told him and glided away. Heimdall did, taking a moment to Gaze throughout the hall, letting his vision pass through walls and stone, sweeping in a wide arc. There were Valkyries in number, along with servants and pets, but none of the beings within his sight were Maevae, not even the folk working in the kitchen. A little rumble of frustration rose in his throat.

After an interminable wait, Heimdall was on the edge of striding to the room he had visited before when the little Valkyrie skittered into view and waved him forward.  
“My lady will see you for a few moments, Guardian,” the Valkyrie told him, her expression wary. 

He inclined his head even as he held his tongue and followed her into the same room as before. Lady Hrist sat polishing a sword, the blade bright as she stroked it with a rough cloth. She barely glanced up at him before returning to her work. “What do you want _now_ , Guardian?”

Heimdall kept his voice mild. “The Lady Maevae comes to mind.”

“Oh she’s dead; wasn’t that what you insinuated the _last_ time you were here?” Hrist matched his tone and didn’t bother looking up.

“We both know she is not.”

“Which makes _you_ a liar,” Lady Hrist sneered mildly. She rose, hefting the sword in a careless way, moving around the room. “You were permitted _one_ opportunity to move freely through our hall, Guardian and you did so under false pretenses. It is time for you to go, while you still can without help.”

Heimdall shifted his stance slightly, keeping his face towards Lady Hrist. “Lady Maevae left your service and the Valkyries lied about it. You accosted her in Odin’s hall and that makes you and your sisters suspect.”

Lady Hrist laughed, the sound harsh and high. “What proof have you for any of this? As far as anyone knows, Maevae ran away _to_ you, and then away _from_ you. Leave, Guardian, before I part your head from your neck.” To strengthen her threat, she swung the sword near his shoulder. 

Heimdall refused to flinch. “Perhaps I should speak with Lady Skuld instead of an underling.”

This insult did not endear him, and Lady Hrist’s lips tightened. “She doesn’t waste her time with the Allfather’s watch . . . _dog._ ”

He wouldn’t be goaded although his lips tightened and Heimdall felt his eyes flash. “You refuse?”

“I do,” Lady Hrist punctuated it with a humorless laugh. “Even Odin himself cannot enter our Hall without invitation to do so, and certainly would _not_ do so for a mere worker in our hive. Go, Guardian or find yourself carried out on a bier.”

She swung the glittering blade at Heimdall but he took a step back, out of range. Hissing, Lady Hrist tried a back slice, but he caught her wrist and stilled it. Staring at her, Heimdall murmured, “What drives your ferocity, my lady? Could it be fear?”

Lady Hrist glared at him, her amber eyes bright. “I fear _nothing!_ Especially not a misbegotten little wretch OR the warrior foolish enough to think himself in love with her! For the last time, Guardian, _leave!_ You may be able to evade _my_ sword but at one cry every blade here will be against you and we number _many_ in our own hall!”

Heimdall let his hand drop and kept his Gaze on Lady Hrist, well-aware of the roiling darkness within her. It billowed furiously through her frame, and he was aware of a faint hint of carrion in it. He stepped back.

“This matter is not ended,” he rumbled, and moved to the door before Lady Hrist could say another word.

\--oo00oo—

His fury and frustration made him dangerous, and Heimdall knew he needed to vent it lest he go mad; therefore he rode recklessly to the battlegrounds, prepared to take on anyone, everyone who was there.

He fought hard, letting his desperation guide every parry and counter; by the time Heimdall finished no-one was left willing to challenge him. High above on the balcony, Thor looked on with concern and made his way down to speak with him.  
Heimdall wiped the sweat from his face as Thor spoke. “Is there some threat to Asgard I know nothing about? From the way you are fighting, I expect an invasion of Bilgesnipe at the very least.”

Managing a small smile, Heimdall shook his head. “The beast I battle is worse.”

“ _Worse?_ ” Thor shook his head, “then you are troubled indeed. How can I help?”

It was generosity typical of the prince, and Heimdall appreciated it. He hesitated though, and looked once more towards the north before he replied. “Lord, what do you know of the Valkyrie Lady Hrist?”

Thor’s mouth turned down for a moment and he spoke with none of his previous levity. “A stern battlemaiden, that one. First to arrive and sort the dead from what I recall. Is your enmity with her?”

“Let us say we have our disagreements,” Heimdall offered neutrally. “The Lady Maevae was once a sister in the hall of the Valkyries.”

At this Thor himself looked north thoughtfully. “Ah. Well they are a house unto themselves, Heimdall, and not freely subject to even the Allfather’s will.”

“I know, but I have business unfinished with them,” came the grim reply, “and I fear a dark seiðr muddles my sight.”

At this, Thor clapped a heavy hand on Heimdall’s shoulder. “Then I suggest you meet with my mother and lay the matter before her. She knows magic better than anyone, even Loki.”

“That,” Heimdall nodded slowly, “is the best counsel yet, Lord Thor. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And how _is_ your lady, the fair Maevae?” Thor teased. His expression faltered when Heimdall turned a bleak gaze to him, and immediately Thor’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“Gone. The Valkyries have her, although I cannot See her,” Heimdall muttered.

“We _will_ find her,” Thor replied, his tone firm. “Bathe, and I will speak to my mother. Join us when you are through.”

Heimdall nodded, feeling the first glimmer of hope all day, and watched Thor stride off purposefully before making his own way to the baths.


	6. Chapter 6

Frigga was at her table, weaving feathers when Thor brought him in. Heimdall bowed, and met her concerned gaze. "Guardian. My son says your Valkyrie has disappeared again."

"Under circumstances more ominous, my queen," Heimdall replied, and told her about the evening prior, judiciously editing out the interlude in the garden. Frigga however, gave a small one-sided smile that told him he was not fooling her at all. She waited until he finished recounting his visit to Lady Hrist before speaking.

"This mystery deepens. Why so much fuss for one maid? I am not _slighting_ her, Guardian," Frigga assured him quickly, "but given her history it seems odd that the Valkyrie would be so concerned about her existence. Does Lady Hrist hold some grudge against the maiden?"

"She does," Heimdall murmured, "though I do not understand the root of it."

Thor, who had been walking around the table, looked up. "Does Lady Skuld feel the same way?"

"I did not speak to her," Heimdall replied. "Only her second, who harbors some secret darkness within her."

"A darkness?" Frigga questioned, looking more keenly at him. "Describe it." Heimdall did, and the queen's expression shifted to a concerned frown. "This grows more troublesome. Tell me, does the maid Maevae have any magic to her?"

"Her only belongings are three stones, a horn cup and . . . bones," came the reply.

Thor looked askance, but Frigga gave a nod. "Bring them, and I shall look for enchantments."

Hope rose in his breast, and Heimdall strode off, feeling more reassured by his queen's words than by all the fighting he had done in the battleyard earlier. After checking with a solemn Hjor ("She has not returned yet, master,") Heimdall collected Maevae's little belongings, bringing the tattered blanket with him as well. The cool air of the day helped clear his head, and he let his Gaze sweep through both Asgard and the vast space around it. He thought back to Hrist's words, going over them in his mind, and one comment in particular came back to him: _a mere worker in our hive._

Heimdall thought of the skep in his garden and wondered.

Once back within the queen's chambers, he carefully unpacked Maevae's belongings, setting them gently on the table. Frigga studied the little blanket, patting it with motherly tenderness before moving to the cup full of bones, her brows narrowing.

"That is the tip of a Bilgesnipe horn," she observed, lifting it up. "I haven't seen a cup like this since my girlhood. It is from Vanaheimr I believe."

"If this was only the tip of a horn, the beast must have been immense," Thor observed. He tipped the cup and the little bones within it slipped out onto the table with a soft tinkling sound. Frigga passed her hands over them and they reassembled into the skeleton of a bird, magic holding the dried pieces in place.

"A dove," Frigga mused. "Along with the cup, this tells me your Valkyrie was—is—of the house of Semiramis, Lord Heimdall. An ancient and noble line, long thought passed."

When she moved her hand away, the bones tumbled apart again. Heimdall carefully scooped them up, returning them to the cup as Frigga reached out a hand to the closest of the three green stones, picking it up and closing her eyes.

Heimdall looked at Thor, who gave a very slight shrug; while the elder prince respected magic, he had only the basic knowledge of it, preferring more forthright methods of shaping his future.

"Loved," the queen sighed, giving a small smile. "Your lady was loved, Heimdall. As a babe, she was transformed to a dove and sent to Asgard to protect her."

"Her wings," he rumbled, and Frigga nodded, opening her eyes.

"The return of her true shape was incomplete, and thus she now has wings. That would explain why she was taken to the hall of the Valkyries. The stone holds impressions but they are very faint now; barely a layer of dust on them. Let us see what the second stone says."

Frigga picked it up and closed her eyes again, tensing sharply. Thor stepped closer, concerned, and Heimdall rested a hand on the table, bracing himself.

"I see it," came the queen's voice, strained. "Blackness like billowing smoke. Anger, much anger. Hunger too, for battle, for victory, for _flesh_ . . ." Frigga dropped the stone with a shudder, opening her eyes to find herself the object of concern.

"Mother," Thor reached a hand for her shoulder. She let him rest it there and patted it in reassurance.

"Have no fear for me," she told both men as she regained her calm. "All I have done is to read what the stone has absorbed. The evil you see within Lady Hrist is very real, Guardian; it is not of Asgard but something borne out of the darkness the lies within Helheim. I suspect she has been possessed by a Heljar-hrafnar."

Heimdall dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword, as did Thor, who glanced uneasily out the open archway to the north. "How is it possible?"

"Seiðr," Frigga sighed, "the blackest sort." She waved at the cup. "We may never know the truth of it, but if the child was sent away, it is reasonable to assume she may have been followed here to Asgard, and that the evil that came after her needed a home, a . . . _nest,_ if you will, to hide from sight."

"But," Heimdall demanded quietly, " _Why_ , my queen? Why Maevae and where is she now?"

Frigga glanced to the third stone. "Maybe our answer lies here." She picked it up and concentrated, both men watching her intently. After a few seconds she opened her eyes. "Hmmmm."

Carefully she turned, holding her hand out before her, and when she faced the open archway, Frigga gave a little pleased sound. She looked over her shoulder and spoke. "There is a _tracker's_ charm on this stone, and I would bet my best loom you will be able to find your missing dove with it, Lord Heimdall."

Heimdall stepped to her, and Frigga dropped the stone in his outstretched hand; it felt warm to the touch.

"Turn away from the arch," the queen instructed, and when he did, Heimdall felt the stone cool immediately. When he shifted back, the warmth returned.

"How is it done?" Thor wanted to know, and when his mother explained, he grinned. "Marvelous!"

Heimdall shot him a look, and Thor sobered, giving a nod. "Let us go; I will second you in this matter."

"Just a moment," Frigga pointed out in exasperation. "I understand the desire to rescue the maid, but consider this: if the stone leads you back to the hall of the Valkyries you cannot enter without invitation, either of you!"

Heimdall gritted his teeth, well-aware that she was right. Thor too, gave a frustrated sigh, but Frigga scooped up a quill and a scrap of parchment. "However, as queen, I _can_ have you deliver this message, and by the Allfather's law it must be obeyed." She scratched a few lines of runes and after setting the quill down, lifted the note to blow the ink dry. "There. I charge you, Heimdall, and you my son, to search the grounds of the Valkyrie's hall for grey feathers. I require them for my cloak, and refusal to allow collection will mean the Victory-Maidens will be hall-bound until they comply."

Heimdall nodded, trying not to smile at this clever bit of roundabout subterfuge. He accepted the note in his other hand and tucked it into his armor as Thor hugged his mother, chuckling.

Frigga motioned to the stone in Heimdall's palm. "I cannot do more, but I pray you find her. Go."

He and Thor bowed to her and set out, striding out of the great hall together. As they saddled up, Thor spoke, his tone compassionate. "This maid means much to you."

"She does. More than I realized," Heimdall replied in a quiet voice. "Unlike you, _I_ have never been anyone's champion before."

Heimdall saw Thor smile wistfully, and cast his gaze up to the sky. "It is worth whatever we ride to, my friend. Believe me."

-oo00oo-

As they approached the Valkyrie's hall, Heimdall noted a new coolness to the austere serenity of the place. He glanced at Thor who seemed to sense it as well by the slight frown he wore.

"Grey feathers," he murmured, and Heimdall nodded.

The little Valkyrie at the door stared at them with flinty eyes. "Begone; we have no business with either of you," she told them. Thor managed a smile with a hint of steel in it, his fingers gripping the edge of the huge oak door.

"By my mother the queen of Asgard, I think you do," he replied. Heimdall approached, holding out Frigga's note; the little Valkyrie glanced at it, and then at both of them.

"Wait here," she muttered, turning away.

Thor waved his fingers to her as she left, and looked at Heimdall. "Not as friendly as when they bring mead, are they?"

Heimdall grunted. After a time the door opened wide and it was the leader of the Valkyries, Lady Skuld stood before them, her silvered wings twitching in agitation. "A search for feathers? What nonsense is this?"

"By the queen's command," Heimdall replied in a voice that brooked no argument. He stepped forward and Lady Skuld stepped back, admitting him into the hall. Thor followed behind.

"Grey feathers . . ." Lady Skuld muttered. "We have none here; the queen knows that. What is this _about,_ Guardian?"

"You have no grey feathers?" Heimdall asked, because Lady Skuld's tone brooked honest confusion. He Gazed into her and saw truth.

"Only our little kitchen maid had them," Lady Skuld replied, her expression softening. "Poor child. She took her own life from the Bifrost many days ago; surely you _know_ this, Guardian?"

"Maevae Dovesdottir did _not_ die in a leap from the rainbow bridge," Heimdall rumbled, feeling his anger surge. "I saved her and gave her harbor myself."

Lady Skuld blinked. "She lives? But I was told . . . wait here," came the no-nonsense command. Moving swiftly, the leader of the Valkyries strode off, wings flexing.

Thor shot a sidelong look at Heimdall. "I sense a deception about to be uncovered, friend."

"Let us hope it ends well," Heimdall returned, shifting his Gaze through the hall. He pulled the stone out and felt its increased warmth against his fingers. That little reassurance comforted him and he moved his hand, seeking more heat.

Turning it east brought a flare, and Heimdall looked that way, seeing only a wall before him. Before he could move closer though, a harsh cry and the ringing of metal on stone rang through the hall. As one he and Thor moved towards where the noise originated, both of them alert.

Another crash, this time muffled and against the door of the study. Heimdall tucked away the stone and Thor pulled the door open; Skuld slumped against it, dazed and bleeding from her shoulder. Her eyes however blazed. "Monster!" she hissed.

Heimdall stepped over her, leaving the prince to carefully pull the wounded Valkyrie out of the way. Alert, he bobbed out of the way as a dagger flew past his left ear and sailed out into the all, clattering some distance away. He drew his sword, his sight and Gaze caught up by the creature on the other side of the chamber.

"Guardian!" came Hrist's shout. "This is your blame! You should have let her die!"

Rather than let himself be drawn into a distracting argument, Heimdall circled, keeping his attention on the creature before him. It wasn't difficult; the swing of Hrist's blade didn't hide the wicked talons holding its handle, or the yellow scales around her beak and mad eyes.

She stood poised, her wings flexing, head cocked to one side; a hideously unnatural blend of woman and raven.

"Heljar-hrafnar, where _is_ she?" Heimdall growled, keeping the point of his sword pointed at her.

Hrist cackled and twisted her own blade to slip under his, attempting to lever it up. "Where you will not find her, not _this_ time! I should have killed her _myself_ instead of driving her out, but there would have been questions." She thrust quickly, managing to get the point of her sword in the sleeve of Heimdall's armor, slicing the inside of his forearm lightly.

It stung, and he succeeded in pulling straight back, preventing further injury. Heimdall swung his own weapon at her talon feet, missing them by inches. "There are _still_ questions!" He shouted. "Why _her_?"

A shriek rose from Hrist. "Because she CAUGHT me dining on the dead and nearly dead! The little squab knew I was no more a Valkyrie than _she_ was!" Jabbing quickly the monster spoke again, her words in croaks. "I took her to the battlefield as ordered but my appetite got the better of me and that quaking little pullet saw me devour a warrior's steaming entrails. I told her to keep silent; if she ever said a word I would kill her. Oh, I should have done it _then!_ "

Each thrust of Hrist's blade came closer to Heimdall's face and it took concentration to block the blows. He Saw the blackness within Hrist engulf her completely, blocking out everything but her mad yellow eyes.

"So you tormented her, punished her by having her sent to the kitchens," Heimdall guessed, making another swing at Hrist's foot-claws. "Hoping to keep her silent."

"Yes!" came the harsh caw. "And I bided my time. When Skuld left, I found reason to banish the little fool. I'd hoped she'd fall to her death and end the matter but _you_ had to be a hero!" Hrist circled, her sharp beak wide. "A century of easy feeding on the dying, gorging myself on their painful fatality gone now because of YOU!"

She swept her blade high, catching Heimdall across the top of his shoulder, gouging a long slash over the top of it. He jerked back, the hot sting searing. Hrist pressed the advantage, moving to jab but Heimdall struck first, sinking his blade deep into the exposed expanse of sooty feathers before him. An acrid scent accompanied by gouts of dark green fluid splattered out, and Hrist cried out shrilly, dropping back, wings flapping enough to send scrolls and dust flying. Heimdall realized his mistake and lunged forward, but the Heljar-hrafnar turned her beak up, making a peck at his face, gouging a little furrow along his cheekbone.

"Where IS she?" he demanded in hoarse desperation.

More ichor leaked out, spilling onto the floor and rug, soaking everything, and Hrist gave a weak cackle, her yellow eyes beginning to dim.

"I . . . _win,_ " she whispered in triumph.


	7. Chapter 7

They searched the grounds. Skuld had her Valkyries help in the hunt, and Heimdall let the stone guide him, but it only brought him outside of the hall and immediately cooled once he was there. He squeezed it, held it high and low, turned in every direction but infuriatingly, the little green stone stayed cold.

“Perhaps the magic was affected by the monster’s death,” Thor offered, looking grim. Heimdall shot him a bleak glance, well aware of that possibility. The torment of being so close yet now having no further guide to Maevae put a blunt edge to his pain, and Heimdall scowled, mentally berating himself as he wiped the blood that trickled on his cheek.

If only he’d _disarmed_ Hrist, taken her captive instead of running her through, made her confess where she’d hidden his love . . . Heimdall glumly acknowledged his error and looked around hoping for some aid.

The fields here held acreage of clover and wildflowers, fringed by orchards in various stages of blooming and fruit. He spotted the skeps neatly lined along the stone wall at the end of the path and seeing them made his chest tight with fearful hope. Heimdall clutched the stone and strode towards the baskets, letting his Gaze sweep through them. 

Bees. Honeycombs. Hay. 

There was nothing within the three hives that looked remotely enchanted or out of place. Heimdall stopped within arm’s reach of the first one, the faint buzz louder here, and looked down at the stone in his hand.

Nothing.

No heat, no guide to Maevae warmed his palm and for a moment he considered letting the useless stone drop from his hand, but thought better of it and tucked it away. Several bees hovered about him, seemingly attracted to the bright gold of his armor and he waved them away as Thor came closer.

“I know she is small,” Thor began, looking at the skeps with a faint smile, “but unless your lady has been enchanted, even she would not fit in one of these.”

“Something the beast said,” Heimdall muttered, still staring at the baskets. “She called Maevae a ‘mere worker in our hive’.”

Thor looked thoughtful. “So enchantment may well be possible, then. Perhaps my mother can help.”

But even Frigga found nothing and neither did Loki, who looked askance at the baskets and then at the warriors. “And the Æsir thought _me_ mad for foaling a colt,” he murmured. “At least I had the good sense to leave insects alone.”

“You made a choice; the maid here did not,” Thor rumbled in reprimand.

“Well bee that as it may,” Loki responded, “she’s not here. These two hives hold nothing but the regular sort of pollinators.”

Discouraged, Heimdall stayed behind as everyone else slowly drifted away, and he walked among the trees in the orchard, trying to collect his thoughts. It wasn’t lost on him that the day was now fading into a beautiful evening, painfully reminiscent of the night before in his own garden.

Soon he’d have to take up his post, and for the first time in ages, the weight of his duty hung with bitter heaviness on him. He Gazed up and out into the sky, all too aware of the empty beauty overhead.

“Cygnet,” Heimdall whispered fiercely, “help me find you.”

A bee landed on his cheek, a light touch against the dried edges of the cut there. Heimdall impatiently brushed it away with the back of his hand and later, when the first stars began to gleam, he mounted up on Gulltoppr, heading for the bifrost.

The night passed, each moment dead and heavy to him. Heimdall swept his Gaze through the realms, seeing but not watching, noting the minor events without any interest in them. 

He remembered her voice.

Her smile.

The brush of her feathers.

For the first time since assuming his task for the Allfather, Heimdall gave into his grief and closed his eyes, letting the moment of darkness stretch out, his head bowed.

A faint hum made him open them again, and as his shoulders lifted, Heimdall glanced up to the great curved dome of his station searching for the source of the sound.

A bee. 

A dart of hope pierced his mood and he turned his Gaze on the tiny insect, seeing the heat of its body and blur of wings. As Heimdall watched, it flew down to him, weak and small, landing on his shoulder.

He turned his head and studied it, overlaying the drawings from the scroll onto its form. “You are far from home, friend.”

The exhausted bee crawled towards Heimdall’s face, antenna wiggling slightly, purple dust on the fuzzy body. The color struck him as odd and yet familiar at the same time; gently he reached up a finger. Obligingly the bee stepped onto it, wobbling a bit.

Heimdall Looked again, and this time the dust came into focus, carrying with it a light and pleasant scent. 

One good for dreams.

He smiled.

\--oo00oo—

When dawn came, Heimdall returned to Himingbjorg, the bee cupped in his hands for the entire walk down the length of the bifrost. Once home, he made his way to the garden, and for a moment memories threatened to overwhelm him as he looked around. With care, Heimdall opened his hands and held them up, letting the cool dawn air revive the insect. It snapped its wings and lifted off from his palm. The insect circled him once and turned for the skep hanging from the bird cherry in the far corner.

Heimdall took a breath and followed it. As he did a flare of heat against his chest made him pause; he fished out the green stone and found it as hot a coal in his hand. He couldn’t help but grin, and moved closer to the hive, a new lightness in his step.

“Maeve,” he murmured. 

A fountain of humming, buzzing bees poured out of the skep’s doorway, the stream of them twisting up and away like a dust devil, and Heimdall watched them for a moment, wondering if they were going to swarm. They gathered overhead like a miniature storm, their drone carrying on the still air. Cautiously he put a hand on the skep, feeling no vibration from it although it was warm as he pocketed the stone again.

Then it shifted, and the head of a bird peeped out of the little doorway, cautious and quick. Heimdall stayed still, Seeing magic and feeling his heart tumble around in his chest as the bird made her way out and clung to the lip of the doorway, one bright apple seed eye watching him.

“My dove,” he whispered, and with a flurry of wings she rose up to alight on his outstretched hand. Her weight was nothing, and the morning light on her grey wings gleamed. Heimdall slowly brought her closer, and she preened, her cooing louder now. 

Even as he studied her, Heimdall wondered what to do next; clearly finding Maevae wasn’t quite the same as breaking the enchantment that still existed. 

He chuckled and felt the tension along his shoulders and back ease away. “Very well then. Back to the queen we go to see what must be done. Thank you for sending that hint of Saxifrage.”

The dove trilled again, and settled into his wrist, preening a bit. 

Hjor seemed startled to see his master carrying a bird, but when Heimdall held her higher and murmured, “Your future mistress seems to have a small enchantment problem,” the older man hid a grin.

“Then I wish you all good fortune in reversing it,” Hjor replied. “Especially since the mint and parsley are making inroads into the sage.”

At this the dove looked indignant, and cocked her head towards Heimdall, who chuckled. “Patience my love. Time enough for gardening after we have you back.”

He changed out of his armor and tucked the dove into his tunic for the ride back to the hall; there he waited for Frigga to receive him, which she did over breakfast. She smiled and held out her hands to the dove, cupping it gently.

“An elegant form from the house of Semiramis, truly. Let us see what can be done.”

She brought the dove to the table, where the cup, bones, and blanket were; the bird fluttered down and began to peck at one of the stones.

“Hmmmmmm,” Frigga moved the other items out of the way and set the stone down. Immediately the dove turned to the second stone and intuitively the queen shifted it until the little bird seemed satisfied.

“And now the third one—” she looked at Heimdall. 

He blinked. Carefully he patted himself, trying to remember if he still had it, or if it was among his armor . . . his fingers touched it, fished it out. Heimdall held it to Frigga, relief washing through him.

No more mistakes, he promised himself. Not this time.

She set the stone down and when she did, they formed a triangle around the dove on the table, lines of power connecting and humming from each. The dove shimmered, grew, rose and solidified into a familiar figure on her knees. Heimdall and Frigga both drew in breath and then—

With a thunderous crack the stones dissolved into fine glittery dust. The smoky remains drifted around Maevae, who coughed and waved a hand before her face for a moment, but she had barely caught her breath before Heimdall scooped her up, hugging her tightly. Her scent, her weight and warmth seeped into his very soul and he gave a contented little growl.

She clung to him, her own sniffles confirming her tears. “I thought you’d never _find_ me!” Maevae whispered. “You kept ignoring my little sisters!”

“Never again,” Heimdall promised her. “You have taught me to see the small as well as the great.”

Frigga cleared her throat loudly, and Heimdall tried to look at her with dignity, but it was difficult with his arms full of winged woman. It didn’t seem to matter though, because the queen was smiling at them both.

“The birds and the bees,” she murmured, her eyes twinkling, “how apt. I am pleased to meet you at last, Maevae, last daughter of the house of Semiramis of Vanaheimr.”

“W-what? Me?” Maevae’s confusion nearly made him laugh, but Heimdall nodded, finally allowing himself to smile as he finally set her down. 

He kept an arm around her though.

“It is possible, yes. These little treasures of yours point to it,” Frigga assured her kindly. “We may never know the truth of the matter, but for now you are indeed Lady Maevae as far as the we of the Aesir are concerned.”

It took a while to convince Maevae, but she eventually accepted Frigga’s word and gathered up her little belongings, sweeping the dust of the stones into the cup. When she did, a chime rang out, and a reconstituted dove fluttered out of the cup like a magic trick, looking slightly startled.

“Menon!” Maevae cried in delight. “Oh Menon!”

The dove trilled and bobbed with excitement on the lip of the horn cup, hopping onto Maevae’s outstretched hand, wings fluffing happily.

“My nurse,” Maevae announced. “As dedicated and clever as any companion ever was. How glad I am to see her, young again.”

“So Hrist did not . . . ?” Frigga asked cautiously, and Maevae shook her head. 

“No, it was old age that did my guardian here in. Although Hrist bullied her often,” came the bitter reply, “even before I knew the truth of her nature.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Heimdall wanted to know.

“I couldn’t,” Maevae admitted. “She threatened to destroy the hives, and hurt Eir and the others in the kitchen. I couldn’t let that happen. I simply did not know _who_ I could trust until I met you.”

She said it simply and honestly to him, smiling up into his face; Heimdall felt himself blush.

“You have chosen a worthy champion,” Frigga smiled. “And one devoted to you. You have my blessing my dears.”

Heimdall knew a dismissal when he heard one and carefully helped Maevae collect her belongings, thanking the queen once more.

The day promised to be bright and fair as he helped her up onto Gulltoppr, and once Heimdall had mounted up behind her, pressing against her folded wings, he slid one arm around Maevae’s waist, settling her in. “It is said that a blessing from Frigga holds a certain unspoken degree of decree, Cygnet,” he murmured close to Maevae’s ear. She turned to look at him, her quizzical expression shifting to a smile as his meaning became clear, and lightly she laid her hand over his where it wrapped around her waist.

“Well in that case I think the best way we can thank her would be to do as she commands, Guardian. But _first,_ I need to remind the mint and parsley who is boss.”

“ _After_ ,” Heimdall interrupted her, pressing a kiss on Maevae’s grin. “Long _after._ Possibly even tomorrow; having found you again, I am in no hurry to lose you, not even to my garden.”

She laughed all the way home.

End


End file.
